Seven Deadly Sins
by samaryley
Summary: There are seven deadly sins, and seven guys in the Curtis gang. Everybody knows that greasers are no angels - each member of the gang struggles with their own imperfection and falls prey to dark behavior from time to time. Rated T for sinful behavior.
1. Lust

**I do not own any characters from _The Outsiders_. All rights belong to S.E. Hinton.**

He inhaled deeply, closing his eyes and letting the sensation take over, the effects of the smoke filling up all of his senses. He needed it, to fill him up, as he waited – for her – his lover – his _drug_ – to come home.

He was parked on a side street, diagonally across from her house, a spot from which he could see the comings and goings of what went on there, yet not close enough to be suspicious. Not in terms of what was happening at her house, anyway.

……………………………..

It had all started so suddenly. Mr. Griffin, the Remedial English teacher, had fallen while gardening and broken his hip. The School Committee, in its desire to quickly hire a substitute, had asked Ellen Harris, wife of Tom Harris, the varsity football coach, to stand in. She wasn't a teacher, by any stretch of the imagination, but, due to the fact that she had a college degree in English, she was more than qualified, in the eyes of the board. Hell, it was only a few weeks of English classes for the kids who were just barely going to pass anyway, regardless of how skilled a teacher they were given.

The kids in her classes had no qualms about her qualifications; they liked the fact that she wore short skirts, low-cut blouses, high heels, and that her hair hung in that incredibly seductive way across her face.

Okay, so maybe not _everybody_ appreciated it, but Steve did.

That was what had started it all. He'd been eying her the moment she stepped into the classroom, but later in the period, as she leaned over to help the girl next to him with her sentence diagram, he'd come face to face with her cleavage.

He'd caught her eye, and she'd seen him looking.

She hadn't looked away. In fact, she'd looked him in the eyes, an emotion he'd tried to read present in her eyes; the best he had been able to come up with was sadness, though the look hadn't been discouraging.

In fact, it had turned him on. _A lot_.

He'd squirmed in his seat the next few days, waiting for her to come offer help to Erin, his partner. And every day she did, leaning over, and meeting his gaze on the way. On Friday, after a tortured week of her leaning over him while he fought to resist the urge to touch her, she stood up to help another student, and her chest actually brushed against Steve. There was a tangible spark, a shock that ran through him as she pulled back away.

"Sorry," she said, staring at him. His eyes were wide, his cheeks flushed. She knew he was a "greaser," more interested in fixing engines than diagramming sentences. Something about him caught her eye, however, and she realized that he had always given her more than enough space when she'd leaned in over him, almost as if he'd been afraid. This boy, _afraid_ of her. It made her feel sad, somehow, yet strangely excited, and powerful.

They'd both dismissed anything they'd felt about each other, shirking it all off as silly and impossible. Student-teacher relationships; everybody knew that they were wrong, that nothing good would ever come out of them. There was no possibility of anything more than a few illicit glances happening anyway, so that's all there was, a constant yet unacknowledged flirting between them in the classroom that managed to escape the notice of the dozen or so other students. It was fun, something they each secretly looked forward to, and they assumed that was all it would ever be. Harmless.

Until that day.

Regardless of what either of them had felt for each other, in those moments, neither could ever have predicted the circumstances of their first meeting outside of the classroom.

Steve was on his way home from school. He was hoping his dad wouldn't be home when he got there – their interactions had rarely been pleasant, lately. He was looking forward to an empty house – his dad out drinking, or who knows where – and the whole house to himself.

He was coming up to the intersection of Chikasaw and East Main, when he saw her. She was pulled over, her car on the curb, standing on the sidewalk with a frown. He hit his signal and pulled over on the sidewalk behind her car.

He got out and walked over, thinking that when she first saw him, she'd had that same seductive look that had just about set him on fire every day during class, but convincing himself that it was nothing.

"Car trouble?" he asked.

"Steven," she said. "It's so nice of you to stop. It just gave out on me."

"I know a bit about cars," he said, meeting her eyes. "Mind if I take a look?"

"Go right ahead," she said, following around to the hood. He popped it and peered inside.

"Looks like you need a new drive belt," he said, realizing she was leaning in to see for herself, her body tantalizingly close to his.

"Can you fix that?" she asked.

"Not right now," he said, "I'd have to order the part, but I can have it towed to my station and have it ready by tomorrow afternoon." Steve secretly thanked God that he had the night off. "I can drive you home, if you want."

"Okay," she answered, with a smile.

There was a palpable feeling of anticipation that ran through Steve as she sat down in the car next to him. He glanced over and saw that her shirt was riding low along her breasts, her cleavage clearly defined. As she sat on the passenger seat, her skirt rode up and her lower thighs were revealed.

"Okay, so… where are we going?" Steve asked, a bit unnerved by the expanse of uncovered skin next to him in the passenger seat.

She directed him to her house, staring at him as he drove. He could feel her gaze on him the whole way, but he stared straight ahead, eyes on the road, thoughts about her chest and hair and body running through his head at a mile a minute.

He pulled up outside a house as she pointed to it. Nice, nothing too fancy. A ranch, with a good sized yard. She didn't move, and he looked over at her.

"Can I offer you a soda?" she asked, staring at him. "For your troubles?"

"I really shouldn't," Steve answered, trying to keep his eyes from focusing on what he really wanted to get a good look at, but knew he shouldn't.

"It's just a drink," she said, touching his leg. "A thank you, for your help."

And before he knew it, he was following her inside, knowing exactly what was going to happen, and how very wrong it was, but wanting it more than he'd wanted anything in a very long time.

Once they were inside, there was no beating around the bush. He called the station to tell them where to get the car, while she poured them each a good sized shot of whiskey. They both sat down on the couch.

"I've seen how you look at me in class," she said.

Steve hung his head, wondering how old she was. Twenty-five, maybe? He did the math in his head. Eight years. Eight years older. He tried to convince himself that maybe this wasn't as wrong as he'd been thinking it was. But, then he remembered, she was married. He tried, but couldn't think of any good justification to get past that detail, so he tried to just forget it.

"I like it," she added, and his head jerked back up, looking at her. She held out the shot to him.

"Drink it," she said. "I love the smell of whiskey on a man."

Hell, then, you'd love my Dad, he thought, as he downed the shot in one swallow. But he didn't say it.

He didn't say anything. She'd just called him a man.

He just closed his eyes and felt the warmth as the whiskey burned its way down his throat, dulling his senses. He closed his eyes for a moment, and was not at all surprised to feel her body move across his and her lips meet his, crashing against him in a rough and unbelievably arousing kiss.

He wanted to stop it, he knew he should stop it – hell, she was married, his _teacher_, for God's sake – and who knew where Coach Harris was - he could walk in at any minute. But suddenly he wanted this, he _needed_ this so badly that he knew right then and there that now that it had started, there would be no stopping it.

He kissed her back, hungrily, greedily. She nipped at him, sucking on his neck and ears, driving him wild. There was none of the struggle to hold himself back that he'd always had to fight with Evie and the other girls he'd been with. She wanted him, _all of him_, as much as he could give her. He concentrated on her lips, afraid of leaving marks on what he knew full well to be somebody else's property. He pulled her up, gasping for breath, picking her up and finding his breath to whisper one word, deep and throaty.

"_Where?_"

She pointed to a door off the hallway, and he brought her into the room – a guest bedroom, it appeared to be. He set her down on the bed, and immediately she pulled him down on top of her, pressing herself up against him.

"Oh God," Steve moaned, as her hands slid under his shirt and tugged at the button on his jeans.

Clothing was ripped off, tossed to the ground, and they threw themselves together, resembling some sort of beast, made up of nothing but intertwined legs and arms, moaning and crying out, begging and cursing. It was like nothing Steve had ever experienced before.

When it was all over, he was spent. But she wanted more.

He couldn't believe it; she wanted _more_. So he gave it to her, the second time as terrifyingly good as the first. When it was all over, he needed a smoke so badly his whole body was shaking.

"You probably should get going," she said, biting at his chest in a way that made him feel like he just might start believing that there was a God, and a good one, at that. "My husband will be home from the game in an hour or so."

Reality came rushing back, and Steve stood up, hastily pulling on his clothes. Jesus Christ, he thought, what the hell was he _doing?_ She's married, for Christ's sake. To the fucking football coach, no less, a guy who could kick his ass into the next century with one hand tied his back. Yet no matter how hard he tried, Steve just couldn't seem to locate and embrace any semblance of regret in his mind.

She had wanted him; _needed_ him, he was sure of it. And he had just helped her out, given her what she needed. He convinced himself of that as he drove home.

………………..

The next day after class she called him over.

"Steven, can you stay back for a minute? I need to see you about something." The guys he usually walked to the next class with turned, wondering if they should wait.

"I'll catch up," he told them.

Ellen went to the door and closed it.

"About yesterday," Steve started, assuming some sort of an apology was in order.

"Actually, it's about today," she said, in a low voice. "My husband doesn't have a game today, just practice, but he doesn't usually get home until after six."

"Oh," Steve said, incapable of any other intelligent answer.

"I just thought you might like to know that," she said, reaching out and running her hand up his leg, slowly, starting at his knee and stopping just short of the promised land.

"You have a good afternoon," she said, nearly whispering.

"I will," he barely squeaked.

……………………………

And so it had been, for nearly a month. It had gotten to the point where weekends were torture for Steve, knowing that if there was no football game, he'd have to wait until Monday to have her again, to hear her begging him for more, urging him on in ways that he couldn't ever imagine Evie doing. Then there was the way she touched him, after - admiring him, staring at him in that way that made him feel her desire, her _need_. He'd never had that feeling before, of somebody needing him. It both terrified him and thrilled him at the same time, and as much as he knew he shouldn't, he kept going back for more of it.

He didn't allow himself to think of her with her husband, because he knew that would lead him into dangerous territory- anger, and jealousy, traits that could destroy even the purest of men.

Steve was a far cry from pure, and he knew it.

She'd started to take over his life, occupying his thoughts while he should have been doing other things. English class was torture, trying to look like he was just listening to what she was saying, while in fact, in his mind he was mentally undressing her, pressing her against the wall, taking her. Soda knew something was up, the way Steve had been rearranging his schedule, asking Soda to cover for him more than ever before, but he didn't offer it up, and Soda didn't ask. He'd been out with Evie on weekends, just like always, and it had been fine; nice, even, but his mind always went back to her. To Ellen. Evie had called him out on it, calling him "distracted," but he had dismissed it, telling her he was just tired. The truth was, he _was_ getting tired.

Tired of lying. Tired of knowing he was doing something wrong, something selfish - and hurting other people, regardless of whether or not they knew it.

As good as it felt to be with her – and it felt _damned_ good – he knew that eventually it would have to stop. So far they had been lucky, and nobody had found out, but it seemed inevitable that they would get caught. And Steve had no misconceptions about how badly that would go.

What he had come to realize was that he wasn't liking himself a whole lot lately. And that was something he wasn't used to feeling. He'd always been cocky, self-confident. Suddenly he was depressed, and, he realized, _dependent_.

He needed her, and he didn't want to need anybody, _ever_.

He knew he had to end it; what he didn't know was how to do it.

………………………..

"What the hell?" he muttered, glancing at his watch. If she didn't get home soon, they'd have less than two hours together. And lord knew they'd been making good use of every minute they had. He'd just lit up another butt and taken a swig from the flask he'd hidden below the passenger seat when he saw her car round the corner. His body reacted physically, his senses heightening as he stepped out of the car and walked around the block, coming through her backyard.

She met him at the door, forcing him against the inside as he closed it behind them. Her attack was even more urgent than usual, causing Steve to become so aroused that within mere minutes, and still fully clothed, he feared that he might lose it.

They stumbled into the bedroom, groaned cries and moans issuing forth from both of them. She whispered his name as he took her, both of them gasping for air afterward, unable to separate themselves from each other at first.

"Holy shit," Steve whispered, nibbling at her lower lip.

Suddenly, she pulled away from him. This had never happened before. She sat up, staring at him, an unreadable expression on her face.

"_What?_" he asked, fear rising in his chest.

"Steven… I have to tell you something."

Oh dear God, don't let her be pregnant, he prayed. She had assured him, that first time, that she was on the pill, and he'd believed it. Holy shit, how would he explain it to Evie, to anyone… they'd have to just pretend it wasn't his.

"I thought you said that you couldn't get pregnant." He tried not to sound as terrified as he was.

"No… it's not that. I'm not."

Steve breathed a huge sigh of relief.

"I'm moving."

"What?"

"Tommy… he got a job, doing scouting for the University of Texas. We're moving."

"What? _When?_"

"This weekend."

"You just found out?"

"No," she said, hesitantly. "I knew, I just didn't want to.." she trailed off, and he interrupted.

"Didn't want to _what_? Miss out on another roll in the hay with me? You knew you were leaving, and you didn't _tell_ me?"

"I just told you," she said, taking his hand. He pulled it back, sliding his entire body away from her.

"So that was it? You were just _using_ me, for one last time?"

"Steven, no. It isn't like that…" she was starting to cry, but he didn't care.

"Was it better for you?" he asked, "knowing that it was the last time, while I didn't? Did you get off on that?"

"Steven…"

"No, don't. Don't try to tell me you give a shit, then leave me." He rolled off the bed, standing up, pulling on his clothes.

"Steve…"

"No." He dressed and walked out the door, hearing her calling after him, but never turning around. He wouldn't go to class the next day, he wouldn't see her in school, he wouldn't see her again. Ever. All of a sudden it occurred to him that he had a choice. He could leave, and never come back. He wasn't sure why this had never occurred to him before, how somewhere along the way he had given up his power to decide what happened in his own life. And he was angry about ever letting himself get in so deep that he completely lost sight of the way out.

Suddenly he remembered himself as a kid, his mom talking to him about taking off a band-aid. She'd urged him to rip it off quick, because although the pain was great, it was short-lived. Taking it off slowly, she reasoned, just drew out the pain.

Steve felt the quick tear, of bandage from skin, as he walked away.

He drove home, pulling up to his house to find nobody home. He took a shower, washing any trace of her from his body, though he still didn't feel clean after a good ten minutes of scrubbing. He got dressed and grabbed a beer and sucked it down, tossing it into the bushes as he started over to the Curtis' house.

He walked in to find Soda and Sandy tangled up in each other on the couch.

"Hey, buddy," Soda said. Steve felt the guilt of a month's worth of lying sitting on his shoulders, right then. "Long time, no see."

"Yeah," Steve agreed, eyeing Soda and Sandy, and wondering if what he'd just done was a big mistake.

"Evie's been looking for you," Soda said, "You wanna go out tonight?"

"Yeah," he said. "I do."

Soda offered up one of his trademark grins and Steve managed to crack a smile, a feeling almost foreign to him, it'd been so long. Soda was a good friend, a true friend. And Evie was a good girl, a nice girl.

Steve thought that maybe he might be able to start liking himself again, just a little bit.

Maybe someday he'd tell Soda about what went on with Ellen. But probably not.

He never believed in confession as a means to redemption, anyway.

Hell, he wasn't even sure there was such a thing as redemption.

But, he decided, as Evie gently traced kisses along his neck later that night, he was gonna give it a shot.


	2. Wrath

"You want another, Two-Bit?" Steve asked, sliding out of the booth next to Evie and heading up to the bar.

I nodded, doing a bit of sliding of my own - of my hand, that is - up the inside of Kathy's thigh. She was being a bit standoffish, what with the misunderstanding we'd had earlier in the week, but she'd agreed to come out, and I was pretty sure that I was game for the amount of sucking up it was going to require of me in order to get back on her good side by the end of the night.

"Get one for Kathy, too – and Evie, if she wants - on me," I said, handing him a few bucks.

"Will do," Steve said, as Kathy nodded and Evie shook her head no, sending a sneer my way behind Steve's back. I heard Kathy snicker under her breath.

"Ease up, Evie… you wanna date, it comes with the territory," she said, and I wanted to turn around and kiss her, but I didn't. I knew she was still trying to keep up her front as the Ice Queen, as far as I was concerned. Keeping up a front was big, with Kathy; she never wanted anybody to know that, despite our all out bickering, she had a real soft spot for me. I was A-OK with keepin' that a secret, too – gave our whole relationship a sort of insiders-only feeling that I think we both kinda liked. On the surface, it all looked real casual, but it was actually pretty serious. What went on _below the table_, however, was just between her and me, and as I gave her thigh a squeeze, her own hand tightened around mine. I hoped Steve'd be back with those beers soon, because I could see where the night was headed, and the back seat of my car was written all over it.

He made it back, soon enough, and slid the beers across the table to Kathy and me. She wasn't a big drinker – certainly not as much as I was, but she enjoyed partaking in the sauce every now and again, especially when she knew I was in the doghouse and was willing to do whatever I had to do in order to earn my way back out. A little loss of inhibition never hurt, in those situations. She took a sip of her beer and I caught her eye … yeah, things were definitely moving in the right direction.

Not so much, though, for Steve. Evie was clearly pissed.

I could see why, a little. She and Steve used to mostly double with Soda and Sandy, but once Sandy was out of the picture, Steve started asking me and Kathy to double with him, not realizing, probably, how much Evie disliked me. Not me and _Kathy _– she liked Kathy, okay – it was just me. I had no idea why – I'd certainly never done anything to offend her personally, but it seemed pretty clear to everyone but Steve that she hated me.

It was kind of a good gag, though, for Kathy and me, to keep saying yes to the double dates, just to see how upset she'd get. Kathy liked her, too, but would tell her right to her face that she needed to learn to lighten up.

And yeah, it was clear - by pretty early on - exactly how upset Evie was.

She allowed Steve to finish that last beer, then demanded a private audience with him, _outside_. Kathy and I laughed as they left, knowing there was no chance she'd be letting him back in without him forfeiting all trespassing privileges with her for the foreseeable future. And Steve, as much as any guy, enjoyed trespassing into Evie's forbidden territory, for sure, so I didn't doubt there'd be no more double dating for a while. As much as we were buddies, he wasn't gonna let _me_ get in the way of his heading headfirst around the bases.

"So..." Kathy leaned up against me, her breath against my neck, "Looks like we're alone… what should we do?"

"Uhhh…. Whadda _you_ wanna do?" I nuzzled my neck back up against hers, sucking, but not hard enough to leave a mark. I knew how she hated that, especially in the summer, having to cover it up with turtlenecks.

"Got any ideas?" she whispered, sucking on the skin above my ear.

We could… go for a drive," I suggested, knowing exactly where and how that drive would end. I moved my hand further up her thigh and she shuddered against it, still refusing to meet my eyes.

"Okay," she whispered. "Maybe."

"Maybe?" I asked, lifting her chin, meeting her eyes, and raising an eyebrow.

"Okay," she said, her wrist tightening around my own and only causing me to squeeze her thigh that much tighter.

I wrapped my other arm around her, sweeping her up out of the seat and guiding her toward the door.

"Hey Two-Bit," I heard Buck call as we headed out. "Phone."

It was probably Steve, the pansy, apologizing for bailing, having dropped off Evie and wanting to buy me a beer. Like I really cared, but he did that shit sometimes.

"I ain't here," I called over my shoulder, as I guided Kathy out the door. I watched as Buck hung up the phone.

……………………………………….

It's a little bit funny - how mad girls can get, but when you're willing to make it up to them – show a little love, a little tenderness, apologize a bit – how forgiving they really can be.

I'd hurt Kathy. No doubt, I did. She'd seen me kissing another girl, when we'd been on the outs – I never would have done it if I thought she'd see it. Never. I cared for her, _for real_. More than I'd ever cared about anyone- enough that I'd sworn I wouldn't cheat on her.

But I had. Because I was Two-Bit Mathews. And I was weak.

I'd hated myself, since that moment, when she'd seen it, and I'd done everything in my power to make up for it. I'd done damn good, too, in my opinion. Kathy and me, we were good. Worth working to save, anyway.

And what happened that night, in my car, just proved to me that I'd served my time. All was forgiven. Lord, I swore, after I dropped her off and headed back home, I would never make the mistake of even kissing another girl, so long as I had Kathy. She deserved better than I'd been… I vowed to be that.

So that's who I was – the new-and-improved, stand-up Two-Bit, as I drove home that night.

I pulled my car into the driveway, surprised to see that Al's truck wasn't there. As much as I disliked him, he and Mom had been getting rather close, and he'd been over for dinner and stayed up to "watch the TV" with my Mom quite a few times over the past month or so. Regularly enough, at least, that it was strange to have a clear spot in the driveway.

I heard the TV on as I headed up the front walk, but something just felt wrong. The house was too still.

I headed up the stairs, feeling every hair on my body raised, my hand reaching involuntarily for my back pocket - my blade.

I pushed the front door open, hesitantly.

"_Ma?_" Katie always kept the door locked if she was home alone; both Ma and I insisted she did. So I know my Mom must have been home if the door was unlocked.

"_Katie?_" I called, into nothing but emptiness. "_Kate?_"

I heard something, a sob, coming from the darkness which I knew to be the kitchen.

"_Ma?"_ I burst into the kitchen, throwing on the lights to reveal my mother, tucked into a ball in the corner of the floor, where the cabinets met. I fell to my knees, immediately, embracing her, my heart racing.

"Ma? What happened? _Jesus!_"

"_Nothing_… Keith… I'm okay. It's okay."

I pulled her hands away to revel her face, bruised and battered. Blood flowed from her nose.

"_Who_, Ma? Who did this?"

"Keith…"

"NO, Ma. _NO!_" Suddenly I froze to the core.

"_Katie… Ma!.. Where's Katie?"_

She shook, and cried, but didn't answer. I laid her down gently and took off like a shot, searching every last inch of the house.

"_Kate? Katie?_" I cried, trying not to sound so angry as to panic her.

I ran through the downstairs, hearing and finding nothing, finally heading upstairs, trying each bedroom. There was no response in my mom's, or hers… finally I tried my own.

"Katie?"

"Keith?" A tiny voice threaded it's way out of… somewhere.

"_Katie?_" I nearly yelled. "_Where are you?_"

"I'm here," a terrified voice came out of my closet. I walked over, slowly opening the door.

"_Keith…_" she sobbed. I saw nothing but her eyes, in the darkness, reflected in the hall light. They were wide, terrified.

"Oh, god," I cried, despite myself, silently thanking a divine being – _any_ divine being – that she was okay. I bent down to pick her up and, immediately, she attached herself to me, sobbing.

"_Kate_… It's okay. I'm here. You're okay. It's okay." She was molding herself to me, her entire being clearly terrified. I carried her over to my bed.

"It's okay, Kate. I promise. It's okay."

She just sobbed, pulling against me, hugging me tighter than I ever remembered. When the hell did she get so strong? I wondered, then realized it might be because of what had just happened that she felt she'd had to become tougher.

"I'm here, now… you're okay." I rubbed her back, trying to calm her down, but feeling myself getting more and more upset.

"Where is he?" she asked me.

"He's gone, baby. He's gone. It was Al, wasn't it?"

"_Yeah_," she whispered. "Is Momma okay? He said…" she stopped, for a big gasping sob, then continued, "He said… he was gonna kill her and I started crying and…"

I looked down at her more closely and for the first time noticed the purplish bruise forming on her left cheek, along her jawline. I felt bile rise up in my throat.

"He hit you? He fucking _hit you_?" I usually watched my mouth pretty good around the kid, but any amount of self-restraint I'd had was quickly going out the window.

I rubbed my finger along the bruise, and she flinched.

"He hurt you anywhere else?" I asked, wanting more than anything to be comforting and gentle for her benefit, but feeling the anger filling my veins.

She shook her head, still shaking and sobbing.

"_I ran_. I ran upstairs. I tried to call you."

Oh, shit. I remembered telling Buck to tell whoever was on the phone that I wasn't there. Meanwhile, some piece of shit loser who hits women was in my house hurting my mother and sister. Some great brother and son I was, ignoring a call for help just to get an hour in my backseat with a girl.

"_Jesus Christ_," I hissed, about ready to explode.

"_Kathleen?_" My Mom's voice was in the doorway. She'd cleaned herself up some but she still looked like she'd gone a few rounds in a boxing ring. The minute Katie saw her she started to sob even harder.

"Momma," she finally loosed her grip on me and ran to my mom. Mom leaned over to hug her and led her back over to the bed.

Knowing the two were okay, for the moment, I wasted no time in taking matters into my own hands. I was gonna make this up to them, come hell or high water. I stood up and turned to them.

"I'm goin' out. You two stay here. I'm lockin' the door behind me, and you leave it that way."

"Keith, _please_, don't do anything stupid," my mom pleaded.

"Don't worry about me; I'll be fine." It was that lowlife Al who needed to worry – he's got another thing coming if he thinks he can hurt my mom and sister – my kid sister, for Christ's sake – and get away with it, I thought. Bastard.

"_Keith!_" She called to me as I ran down the stairs, unable to follow with Katie on her lap.

"Don't worry , Ma. I'll call if I ain't coming home tonight." There was clearly gonna be a fight – a fight that I was gonna _win_, but I tried not to come home right after getting in a any sort of trouble like that. Usually I headed over to Darry's to clean myself up, so I looked a little better before Mom actually laid eyes on me. I was pretty sure I'd be coming home, though, this time. No _way _was I gonna leave Mom and Katie on their own after just having the shit scared out of them by some asshole.

I closed and locked the door behind me, kicking everything n my path on my way to the car. I wanted to smash something, to fucking _kill_ someone. I wasn't so sure if that wasn't my actual goal: to _kill _the bastard. Any guy who thinks it makes him tough to beat on a lady and her eight-year-old kid fucking _deserved_ to die. I was just going to be doing the rest of society a favor, I reasoned. Putting one more asshole out of commission. It was certainly a contrast to what usually went on my head. I don't think many people would have figured me – Two-Bit Mathews - capable of seriously considering murder. But there I was, doing it, _for real._

"_Shit!"_ I yelled, out loud, wishing Dallas were still alive. He'd have a gun, for sure, or know where to get one. Thinking about what happened to him – why he wasn't around any more – only served to fuel my rage.

By the time I pulled into the parking lot at the Golden Stein, Al's preferred drinking establishment, my anger was boiling over. I looked around for his truck and didn't see it, but I was sure he'd show up, if he wasn't already inside. I found myself hoping he wasn't there yet, thinking how much easier it would be to kill somebody and get away with it in the dark of a parking lot, rather than in a bar full of his like-minded asshole friends.

I pulled out my fake ID for the guy at the door, who gave it a disinterested glance before handing it back to me. I shoved past him and scanned the bar, not finding him. The place was even more of a shithole than Bucks, filled with mostly guys who worked at the telephone company where Al worked, many still in uniform. A few stared at me, probably wondering which of their coworker's kids had been sent in by his wife to fetch him. I figured as long as I was inside, I might as well take advantage, while waiting for the son of a bitch to show up.

"Two shots of Jack, straight up," I told the bartender, who looked momentarily surprised at my youth but quickly shrugged it off, pouring the shots and watching as I downed them, one after another.

He stared at me, and I nodded. He poured two more and I downed them, as well.

"Sorry, kid, no more o' that. I ain't lookin' to lose my job."

"Just give me a Bud draft, then."

He stared at me for a second, sizing me up, but I could hold my liquor, and the shots hadn't really set in yet, anyway. He poured me a beer and I paid, slinking away to a corner with it, where I waited for my prey to arrive.

As I nursed my beer, I could feel the alcohol taking effect, warming me from the inside out. I channeled it into my anger, imaging a rage that burned, starting in the pit of my stomach and expanding, until it took over all of my senses. Buy the time I finished that beer, I couldn't hold back any more. I headed outside for a smoke, hoping there was something on which I could take out my aggressions.

My hopes were answered, almost immediately.

Just as I lit up a Kool, I saw it – his truck, pulling in with a screech as it took the corner too fast off Almeda Street.

I ducked back into the shadows – I didn't want him to see me, not yet. I took a long drag on the cigarette and tossed it down, crushing it under my heel. Without realizing it, I had clenched my fists.

He got out of the truck, staggering and almost falling.

Perfect, I thought. Fucking bastard's gonna be easy to kill.

He wove through the parked cars as I slid toward him, finally popping up right in his face between a shitty-looking Pontiac and a mint-green Dodge. He jumped.

"Evening, Al," I said, staring him right in the eyes, feeling the fire of hatred burning in my own.

"Uh…yeah." He was clearly at a loss for words. He swayed, and staggered again, catching himself on the hood of the Dodge. I was feeling surprisingly sober, what with all I'd had to drink. It was just fuel, I reasoned, to keep my rage burning, steady and even.

"You know what I think of lowlife bastards like you?" I asked, refusing to let him break my stare.

"I didn't mean nothin', just, you know, women…."

"Yeah, I _do _know women. I know 'em, but I don't fucking _hit _'em!" I yelled in his face. "You think that makes you tough, hittin a lady and her _kid_? Her eight-fucking-year-old kid?" Who the _fuck _does that?"

"Look, Keith, I…"

"Don't call me that. Don't you dare even say my name, you sick piece of shit."

I could feel the rage inside me bursting at the seams, and before I could think, my fist flew out, catching him with a hard uppercut to the gut. He staggered backwards and fell. I was pissed; I had at least wanted him to fight back, so I could have that satisfaction of hitting him, over and over again. But he lay on his back, clutching his stomach.

"_Fuck You!_" I yelled, kicking at him. "You scare the shit out of my family, then go out to a bar to _celebrate_?"

A customer came out the bar door and looked in our direction; I screamed at him.

"This fucking coward beats on women to feel tough," I yelled. "He's just getting what he deserves." The man looked away, scurrying to his car and getting in, departing quickly. I heard several more cars behind us as I kicked at him, taunting him. He struggled briefly to get up, and I pounced down on him, straddling his thighs, landing a right hook on his cheekbone, which I swore broke the bone. I heard the crack.

He cried out and I bent over, my face right above his, my hand reaching into my back pocket and removing my blade, clicking it open. I saw his eyes flicker at the sound of the click.

"Nobody hurts my family and gets away with it," I said.

I could see the glint of the raised blade reflected in his eyes, just before he closed them.

**XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX**

**Oh, I am mean. I know how it all ends, but ending it there just seemed right. Maybe I'll post the ending here when I get to the third deadly sin. Thanks for reading; please review.**


	3. Sloth

It couldn't get worse, I was sure of it. There was no way. Everything had pretty much already gone to hell. The only person I had left to lose was Darry – and hell, if anything ever pierced his armor, I might as well just throw in the towel myself, I figured. I'd have nothing left to care about. Luckily, I considered Darry to be pretty much untouchable.

Ponyboy going missing – hell, that was bad enough, but then, _Sandy_? Her too?

Ponyboy_, gone_. Sandy,_ gone_. The weight of it all felt like a lead balloon sitting on my chest. Never could I have imagined that, after losing Mom and Dad, I would have to once again go through the pain of losing two people I loved at the same time. I had barely survived it the first time – surviving it again seemed a long shot at best.

Then there was Darry – not really _gone_, just gone _looking_ for Ponyboy. And pretty much gone mentally, as well, locked in his own private hell of guilt and worry. I hadn't said anything about Sandy to him yet, he was already upset and worried enough without having to worry about me, too. Thank God he'd insisted one of us be home at all times in case Pony called, needing us.

I wanted to stay home, I'd told him. To be there, if he called.

Or… if _she_ called.

Two days since Pony left – one day since Sandy left, and _nobody_ had called. Nobody but the damned reporters and cops. It was instinct, now – the second I heard any voice other than Pony or Sandy, the phone was already on its way back into the cradle. I didn't even bother with anything past the initial hello, which had, that night, started off as hopeful, progressed to pleading, and eventually settled in at miserable.

I hurt. I ached; a pain like nothing I'd ever felt before. It was a pain so severe that it paralyzed me, though if a doctor had asked me to tell him where it hurt, I'd have had no idea what to say. Where _did_ it hurt?

Everywhere… but nowhere.

It was something inside of me, nothing a doctor could see just from just examining me. This was nothing so simple as "Soda broke his arm," or "Soda broke his foot." It was more like: "Soda's broken."

Broken. I lay in the bed, imagining myself shattered into a million pieces, like a dropped jigsaw puzzle. It explained why I couldn't get up, why I couldn't move. Nothing was connected anymore. And there were pieces –_ huge_ pieces of me that were missing. I imagined my broken body, being put together by strangers who were painstakingly trying to recreate me, only to realize that the last piece – the most important piece - was missing.

"Where's the heart?" They would wonder, lifting the sheets and searching in the dusty depths under the bed.

They wouldn't find it. It was gone. Missing.

The phone rang, jarring me back to reality. Somehow my hand moved to answer it.

"Hello." It wasn't a question, or even a greeting – just a word to fill the space between myself and the receiver.

"This is Bob Folsom, from the Tulsa Register… Is this the Curtis resid-" The phone clanged, echoing my disgust as I dropped it back into the receiver.

I wasn't sure how much longer I could really take it, the pain. I tried to close my eyes to it – thinking that the blackness would somehow make things seem brighter, in comparison, once I opened them again, but it never worked. All I saw, even with them open, was more blackness.

Sleep… I'd hoped that might be the cure. I'd done little but lay in bed for the past forty-eight hours, forcing myself into motion only when Darry checked in to see if Pony had called. I'd even managed to cook dinner the previous night, though both of us had just moved it around on the plate for a few minutes until Darry leapt up, off to investigate a new idea about where Pony might be. I'd put the dishes in the sink and crawled back into my bed, eying the phone on the bedside table, waiting.

Waiting. I heard Darry come in, and after a minute he poked his head into my doorway.

"Anything?" I asked, already knowing the answer.

"No. Any calls?"

"No." He was only hoping for one, really, while I held out hope for two.

"I'll take the phone." He followed the cord over to my bed, sitting on the edge. He looked down at me, putting his hand on my forehead, pushing my hair back off my face.

"We'll find him, Soda. We will."

I couldn't answer. That ability to feel hope - that was part of the me that was broken. I admired Darry for – among so many other things - still having that capability. Still managing to sound hopeful.

He sighed and stood up.

"Get some sleep." The phone jangled against his thigh as he carried it out, shutting my door behind him.

I wanted to sleep. I really did – I thought I did, anyway… but I couldn't. Maybe that was part of the being broken, too. I lay unmoving for hours, but sleep never came. I thought about them – Sandy and Pony - over and over again – but tears never came, either.

What did come, inevitably, was morning. It felt every bit as dark as the night. Were it not for Darry, I felt like I could have lain there, unmoving, broken, forever. I could imagine it, weeds overtaking the house, vines twining in through the windows as I lay there, for years on end, wasting away until the vines curled around my ribcage and sprouted buds through my eye sockets.

It was wrong, to think this way. I knew that. Soda Curtis was supposed to be happy-go-lucky, smiling. I knew full well that this was what people thought about me, and it was usually pretty easy to live up to it, but right then that Soda seemed a million miles away. I couldn't fathom even how he had ever so much as cracked a smile. It seemed impossible. I wanted to lay in bed forever, willing myself to forget; to not care about anyone, or anything. But I heard Darry in the kitchen and vowed to make an effort.

I could barely even manage the act of sitting at the table as Darry dropped a plate of eggs in front of me… eggs that we both knew would go uneaten.

"Just try, Soda, please?" he asked, the sympathy in his voice not lost on me, as I realized that he didn't even know the worst of it, yet. I saw no point in hiding it anymore, knowing how much he pitied me already, missing Ponyboy.

"Sandy left me." My voice was void of emotion.

"What?" He took a minute to digest it. "Why?"

"She's pregnant – says it ain't mine. She left."

"Jesus, Soda… Is it? _Your's_, I mean?"

I loved her, and I'd thought she'd loved me too… and the truth is, I wished it was mine. The thought of it being somebody else's almost stirred up an emotion in me – _anger?_ But it was fleeting, and faded back into nothingness before I had a chance to really feel it.

"Don't see why she'd lie." I hadn't looked up from my eggs.

"I'm sorry, Soda. You want me to…"

"No. No, I'm fine," I lied. "Just go look for Pony. I'll stay by the phone."

"You sure? I can stay…" He looked pained, and the way he was looking at me made me wonder if he could see it too, how broken I was. But there was nothing he could do. It's pretty much a waste of time to try to put together a puzzle if you already know there are pieces missing. And Darry had more important things to do with his time – things I needed him to do, because I couldn't.

"No. I'm sure. Go out lookin'. I'll stay here."

"_Soda_."

"_Go_, Darry. Pony and Johnny are out there, somewhere, all alone. Go find them." I looked up, finally, and his eyes met mine.

"We'll find him," he said again. That was what was so amazing about Darry – if he set his mind to something, he made it happen. I'd never really done that – the things I wanted the most usually came pretty easy to me – I'd just never imagined they could go away just as easily as they came. Pony and Sandy – both gone.

He stood up, rinsing off his dishes, and grabbed his coat.

"I'll check in at lunch."

"Okay." I watched him disappear out the front door and heard the truck start.

I wasn't sure I could move from the table, but somehow I managed to stand up, put my dish in the sink, and shuffle back into bed.

I had lain there for two or three hours, staring at the ceiling, when the phone rang. I cursed myself for forgetting to drag it back into the bedroom. It took three rings before I was able to summon the strength to move, a good five until I answered it.

"Hello."

"This is Roger Collins, from the Tulsa Times…" The bell rang again as I slammed the receiver back into the cradle.

The phone jangled against my own thigh, this time, as I dragged it back to my bedroom.

I set it down on the bedside table, taking a minute to look around at what felt like Pony himself strewn in pieces around the room. His clothes, his books, his notebooks and scrawled drawings, his spirit.

But not him.

I needed him. And he was gone. Unreachable.

At some point I heard the door open. Suddenly Two Bit was there, leaning over me. I stared up at him, blankly.

"Soda, hey buddy… You need anything?" He was shaking me, like he was trying to wake me up, even though my eyes were open. He seemed sincere enough. Only problem was, there was no way he could get me what I needed.

"I'm okay," I lied, closing my eyes.

"We're gonna find 'em," he said, just as Darry had, though I could read the despair in his voice. He had no more idea where they were than I did, and we both knew it. And Two-Bit didn't have that way of making things happen like Darry did.

"I'm fine, Two-Bit. Just tired. Go help Dar look for 'em," I ordered, just wanting to be left alone.

"Alright, man… take it easy," he said, gently, squeezing my shoulder. My eyes felt glued shut. I wanted the comfort of sleep – of _forgetting_ – so badly. I heard the door close behind him, willing my body to roll over and stare at the wall, trying not to think about the emptiness filling Pony's side of the bed. It felt like a canyon, the hole he left. Sleep didn't come.

I lay there until Darry came home, checking in at lunch, when I managed to sit up and pretend to be alive, and then again when he came home at dinner. It was a repeat of the night before, though Darry's demeanor was edging closer to matching my own. Both of us were nearly at the end of our ropes - and seeing Darry getting there only made my own situation feel that much more desperate. The only reason I was fighting through the blackness at all was for Darry – seeing him starting to give in to desperation made me feel like someone was sawing away at my own rope, with a dull knife, only to make my eventual fall that much more drawn-out and dramatic.

"You been sleepin' at all?" Darry broke the silence surrounding our dinner, and I jumped. I stared back at him.

"No more than you, I reckon."

"I'm not... I mean, I can't sleep, and, well, Two-Bit gave me something from when he broke his arm, just to help me fall asleep, so, if you think you need it…" He studied my expression. "We're gonna get sick, Soda, from worry and not sleepin'. And then we're gonna be no good to anyone."

I almost laughed, but I couldn't, almost like I'd forgotten how. I was _already_ no good to anyone.

"I'm fine," I lied. I was about as far from fine as I'd ever felt. But I was already existing in a way that was so painful, yet – in a strange way – emotionless, that I suddenly feared sleeping pills might send me right over the edge into a complete oblivion, one from which I might never emerge.

I _almost_ wanted it – a dark, silent, thoughtless sleep. No thinking about them, no fear or pain. But at the back of my mind, there was that nagging, pleading hope - _what if they come back?_

I didn't want to miss it.

I was afraid one of them would come back, and need me – and I'd be gone. Asleep. Having given in to the blackness and the lack of emotion that went along with it, and unable to wake up.

So I just lay there. Another day, exhausted, but wide awake. Eyes closed, waiting. Waiting for the phone to ring, a door to open… a voice – his, or hers. Wanting – _needing_ one of those things to happen, because every night I felt the rope I held onto getting shorter.

The fourth day, I assumed my usual post in bed as soon as Darry left. Shortly after, I heard the front door slam. At first I assumed Darry had forgotten something, but the footsteps coming through the house weren't the heavy, deliberate ones I knew as his. They came toward the bedroom and for a brief second, I allowed myself hope that Ponyboy had come home.

"Soda." Steve's voice was at the door, which was slowly opened. I didn't move.

"Man, you look like hell," he stated, bluntly.

I didn't answer. I _felt_ like hell. I was _in_ hell.

"You ain't doin' the kid any good sittin' around here feelin' sorry for yourself, you know." He sat on the bed. "I'll sit by the phone. You go get your ass a shower."

He was right – I needed a shower. I didn't care, but I figured the effort of getting into it with him would take at least as much energy as just taking the damned shower.

He was still sitting on the bed when I got out. I dressed and lay back down on the bed.

"Soda," he said hesitantly, "You can't just sit around waitin' for him to come back. You're gonna lose your job, you don't show up down at the DX pretty soon."

"I don't care," I said, and I meant it. I didn't care. It took too much effort to care.

"You know," he said, proceeding carefully, "they might not come back. You gotta go on livin'."

I felt it again, that inkling of anger. I grasped at it – wanting to feel something - _anything_– but it was gone.

"Go away, Steve. Leave me alone. You been' in here giving me a hard time ain't helping nobody, either," was all I said. I didn't want to hear it. He'd done his job – I was sure Darry'd sent him to make me take a shower. I didn't need to hear any more from him. Mostly because he'd just said it - out loud, my biggest fear – that they might not come back.

He left, silently, pulling the door shut behind him.

Darry came back, at both lunch and dinner, but I didn't even bother to come out to the table anymore. I couldn't eat anyway – so what was the point? I just lay there, and he didn't even come in to reassure me before he headed off to bed himself. His hope was fading too, and he was the only person keeping mine the tiniest bit alive. I lay there all night and well into the next morning, not moving - barely breathing - until I heard Darry come home for lunch. I turned over and closed my eyes again.

I was startled by the phone ringing - enough so that I wondered if I actually might have finally been sleeping. I tried to move to answer it, but Darry had answered already.

"Yes, this is Darrel Curtis." I was surprised to hear that Darry's tone was urgent, worried. This was no reporter. I sat up and listened.

"Yes… Is he alright?" I leapt out of bed. The lethargy that had overtaken me for days drained away, and I felt hope once again fill my veins. I made my way out to the living room.

"Of course, Doctor. We're on our way."

I reached the doorway as Darry hung up. He turned to me, tears in his eyes.

"He's okay, Soda. He's okay. He's at the hospital."

My body actually moved of its own accord, faster than it had since all week, throwing on jeans and a shirt and somehow making its way to the truck. I was moving, but, still, I wasn't alive again yet – I still wasn't whole. It was still nothing but hope that had me moving again. And hope, I knew, could be a real heartbreaker.

We pulled up at the hospital, and I followed Darry as he headed to the nurses station, asking about Pony. He grabbed my shirt sleeve, dragging me to the elevator and pushing the button.

"He's okay, Soda," he reassured me, rubbing my back. "They said he's not hurt."

He could say it a million times, but I wouldn't believe it until I actually got to see, for myself.

The door opened, and closed again. I found myself praying, something I hadn't done in years. There was a ding, and the door opened. I couldn't breathe.

I stepped out of the elevator and looked down the hallway… and there he was. Alive, whole - perfect, despite the soot all over him and his hair. His hair looked ridiculous. I wanted to laugh and cry all at the same time. I struggled for words.

"Pony… your tuff hair."

I wanted to kick myself. He'd been gone five days, I'd been lost without him - completely unable to function - and all I could come up with was a comment about his hair? I squeezed him against me, hoping he knew that what I meant was: I love you. I've missed you. I've been nothing but a disaster since you left, and I don't think I could take it if I'd actually lost you.

I held him, as Darry joined in on our hug, crying. Darry – _crying_? I was too caught up in my own relief at seeing Pony to really notice – or care, for that matter.

Right then, I felt the pieces coming together - the tangible, overwhelming satisfaction as somebody, somewhere, found the lost piece of the puzzle somewhere under the couch, and snapped it into place, completing the picture.

And all I could think was: Soda isn't broken anymore.

**XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX**

**Posted in honor of Good Fic Day. Reviews are appreciated.**


	4. Pride

It hurt. There was no question about it. From the very first punch, it _hurt_ like holy hell.

For a second, he wondered if he should have run. He'd never, _ever_ run when his dad came after him- he'd never so much as cowered or flinched – he'd just taken it. He'd never run from anyone – be it greaser or Soc. He'd stood tall, and taken whatever they handed out, without so much as a whimper. No tears, no noise.

Never any that anyone would hear, anyway.

He'd been hurt before, that was for damned sure. His Dad had messed him up enough that he'd seen tough guys like Dally and Darry react viscerally when they saw him afterward, but none of them had ever – would ever – see him cry. He swore it. What happened when he was alone – when he lay in the darkness of his bedroom on his pathetic excuse for a bed, covered with dirty clothes or whatever else he could find to keep him warm – well… that was something else.

As far as the others went – they just didn't need to see any of that. Johnny Cade may not have had much, but he had his pride, and he intended to keep it that way.

Hell, he figured, he was tight with Dallas – arguably the toughest hood in town (though Tim Shepard would surely have something to say about that) and there was no way on God's green Earth that Dallas would _ever_ be caught hanging around with a crybaby, or some wussy kid that was afraid of a routine beating. And Johnny was never going to be that kid. No, siree – he could stand tall and not balk as his father worked him over good, then turn and walk calmly out the door to the park for a smoke when all was said and done. And while the boys might fuss over him, stitching him up and whatnot, he was stoic as ever. Never a sound, never a tear.

That was what he had – that was _all_ he had. Pride in the fact that he was tough. Tough enough to hang with the likes of Dallas Winston. Tough enough to be accepted by the Curtises despite the fact that he and they had little to nothing in common, and he desperately longed for pretty much all they had, up until their parents had been killed. Tough enough to be accepted by a smart-as-nails kid like Ponyboy, who saw more wisdom in his silence than lack of understanding. Tough enough that not even Steve or Two-Bit, two of the smoothest greasers he had ever met, had ever questioned his position in their circle of friends.

That was all he had, damnit, and there was no way in hell these spoiled rich kids were going to take it from him. Even as the first blow knocked him over, he swore on all things holy that he would go to the grave a virgin before he would ever allow these stuck-up bastards the satisfaction of seeing him break.

His head hit the ground hard, and within seconds there were hands all over him, tearing off his jacket, ripping off his shirt and hitting him; kicking him. _Hard_, in so many places at once that his brain could barely even register the pain in all of the places they were landing punches and kicks. Another hard hit to his face – goddamn those rings, he thought – and, for the first time ever, he wondered whether he was actually as tough as he thought he was.

Standing up to his dad was one thing. Charlie Cade was a big man, but years of drinking had taken a toll on him, and his strength was far less than one might think from a man of his size. He hit hard _enough_ – hard enough to bruise, or to occasionally knock him against a wall – but that was usually the extent of it, and he'd generally wear himself out or go off looking for his drink before he ever really inflicted any serious damage. Johnny knew Steve and Dally had both been through the same routine with their old men, and he'd never seen them all broken up over it. Just came with the territory, it seemed – another hard knock about being born on the wrong side of Tulsa.

But this – Christ almighty, _this_ was something else.

The punches just didn't stop. He could feel the blood running down his face, out of his nose and pooling in his hair, mixing with the grease. The kicking had become rhythmic – a constant beat against his lower back and ribs. And to add insult to injury, the fucking bastards wouldn't shut the hell up.

"You like that, grease?" one taunted.

"How's that feel?" another demanded, with a fist to the gut that made him double over, willing himself not to throw up.

He didn't dare answer. Partly because he didn't want to encourage them – hell, they may well have been trying to kill him as it was – but also because he was shit-scared that if he so much as opened his mouth, he might whimper like some fucking pathetic kicked-around puppy. And he wasn't willing to take the risk. So he gritted his teeth and tried to protect whatever parts of himself he could.

Just as he was about to give in to the blackness clouding his head, thinking that unconsciousness was preferable to crying, and wondering vaguely if one could still cry while unconscious, he struggled to clear his mind.

The punches and kicks had ceased. Eyes still closed, and voices swirling around over him, muffled by the blood pooling in his ears and the deafening beat of his own heart, it took a moment before he willed his eyes to open, wondering what had brought about the break in the action.

Staring down at him were at least half a dozen faces, none of them hurt. All of them were dressed to the nines in their damned country club attire, nothing but smug smiles on their faces. For a brief moment Johnny actually bothered wondering what the hell kind of sick pleasure it was, when you already had everything, to go after such a bottom-feeder as himself – someone who had absolutely nothing. But the moment passed – he realized almost immediately that there really was no use in wondering – and Johnny instead chanelled every bit of spite and hatred he could as he stared the aptly named ringleader dead in the eyes.

"You got nothin' to say, huh grease? Ain't you gonna beg us to stop or somethin'? Start yellin' for your friends to come rescue you?" he sputtered, obviously drunk.

Johnny just stared back. He'd never needed to be rescued before and goddamn it if he planned to be now.

"Fuck you," he hissed.

It seemed like less than a second after he uttered the words that a hard right to the jaw had colors swirling in front of his eyes. The hits continued, and just before losing consciousness he heard someone comment,

"You think you're a tough little bastard, huh? We'll show you what a pussy greaser you really are."

Fearing again that he might break – that he might give them the satisfaction of them witnessing him shedding a tear, or screaming for help – as every cell in his body was willing him to do – Johnny did all he could – he held his breath. Either he'd survive the beating and pass out – or he'd die. And, to be honest, he wasn't all that sure that, ultimately, dying would be any worse than crying in front of his attackers.

His pride was all he had. And without that he may as damned well be dead.

Waking up made him wish a million times over again that he _had_ died. Darry and Soda had their hands all over him and every single bit of pressure on any part of his body hurt like a motherfucker. Darry's hands he could understand hurting him, but Soda was usually gentle as anything – there was no way he'd be hurting him. The fact that his touch was painful was terrifying to Johnny – certainly he must be dying.

"Johnny?" Soda's voice was tender, and Darry's eyes behind Soda's looked terrified, which only served to validate the belief that he was, indeed, dying.

"I'm okay," he somehow managed.

"Christ, Johnny. You ain't okay," Darry answered. "Can you move everything? Your fingers?"

He could.

"Good, toes?"

He could.

"Who the _fuck_ did this?" Dallas asked, from somewhere out of Johnny's line of sight. He was clearly pissed and already planning retribution, Johnny knew as he found him and saw that look in his eyes.

"Socs," Johnny managed and drew in a sharp breath. Despite his very best efforts to hold himself together, not wanting to show the slightest bit of weakness even in front of these friends that he considered brothers, the release of breath came out as a sob. A sob that carried every single ounce of the pain and fear that he had just suffered. All eyes upon him saddened, and Johnny paled. He realized immediately that breathing hurt like hell - as well as totally betrayed the pride he'd fought so hard to preserve, and decided that breathing wasn't something he wanted to do again just then. Or ever, maybe. So he stopped.

"Johnny, wake up. C'mon… _please wake up_." Ponyboy's voice startled him awake and he immediatelyopened his eyes simply due to the sheer terror in the kid's voice - wondering who was dying - and immediately realizing that maybe it was him.

"_Jesus_," he heard Soda mutter. "Should we call an ambulance?"

"_No_," Johnny spoke up, his voice raspy. "No ambulance. I'm okay." He could still feel blood running from his nose into his mouth and it was making him gag.

"You're _not _okay, Johnny," Dally said. "_Jesus Christ._ You're bleedin' like a busted bride. _Fuck._" His hand was on Johnny's chin and Johnny reached up himself to feel the sticky flow of blood. Dallas's hand stopped his own and guided it away.

"I'll just go to the Curtises," he whispered. Damn, but he hurt. But he wasn't going to a hospital. There was no way. That was _paperwork_, that was parental consents… that was _pity_. That had nothing to do with pride… and that was _all_ he had. He wasn't about to give that up in some emergency room somewhere when he could get patched up right at a friend's house and completely save face.

Reaching down deep and fighting through pain like he'd never known, he managed to stand up with Darry and Dally's help, and half-walk, half-allow himself to be carried. It was a blur, but eventually he found himself in Ponyboy's bedroom, lying on the bed as Mrs. Cummings, the Curtises neighbor, who also happened to be an Emergency Room nurse sat next to him, a warm washcloth wiping down his face. He knew he wasn't the first kid she had patched up in such a situation, and doubted he'd be the last.

"Well, John, seems you've got yourself a mighty big cut here," she said. Her voice was soothing and he was tempted to close his eyes again, but something about her was just mesmerizing. His own mother had never, ever soothed him in such a way.

"Am I hurting you?" she asked. "I just want to clean up your face before I stitch it, okay? Don't want it to get infected."

"I'm okay," he managed, wondering if this was the time when a normal kid – Pony or Soda or… _Darry_? No, probably not Darry – but, was this the time when a normal kid would cry? With someone comforting him after he'd been really, really hurt? Would Pony or Soda be crying right now, leaning against her for comfort, in the absence of their own mom, even? He had no idea.

Johnny couldn't even imagine the same scenario involving his mom. She'd watched his dad hurt him time and time again and never had even a single word of comfort. If he thought about it, the fact that other kids had people who cared about the when they were hurt, it might have bothered him. It might have broken him. But there was no way that he was going to cry, right there out in the open in front of someone, anyone.

So he shut his eyes and let her stitch him up without another word.

It was dark when next he woke up. Sitting up and taking in his surroundings, he realized he was still in Pony's room. Mrs. Cummings was gone, and he reached up to feel the stitches down the length of his jaw. It hurt, but not quite as bad as before.

Everything hurt. Not quite as badly as before, but still quite a lot - almost too much to bear. He wanted to be tough – he felt he needed to be tough – but damnit, it hurt. Alone in Pony's bedroom , _knowing_ he was alone – knowing that nobody who knew him as the tough, unshakable Johnny Cade that he wanted _so much_ to be would ever know - he curled up into a ball, buried himself into a pillow, and cried himself to sleep, knowing he would wake up the next morning and face all he people he cared about, pride fully intact.

That pride stayed intact for months afterward. It saw him through saving Ponyboy and killing the guy with the rings in the park. He'd felt bad… but not _that_ bad, knowing what the guy had put him through. He'd struggled not to cry then, but hell, Ponyboy had been too busy puking up his dinner to notice, anyway. He'd stayed strong through the whole ordeal of telling Dallas, hopping the train, and holing up at the church.

Then, after all, he'd decided to man up, to show just exactly how much fucking pride he had, by offering to turn himself in. And he had a goddamned point – it _wasn't _fair for Darry and Soda to have to be out of their minds with worry for Pony – and he knew for sure that they were. It was a nice fantasy to think for a few seconds that his parents might give two shits about him – even though he knew even before asking Dallas and getting his pissy response that they didn't. But he didn't need them anyway. He didn't need anyone. He might have nothing but his pride, but he had _that_ – and he could damned well look out for himself.

Until he couldn't.

"Broken back."

The words echoed in his head. There were other things he heard, talk about T-6 and a severed spinal cord, talk about how breathing wasn't affected and how his arms might still be unaffected, but all he heard – all he needed to hear – was broken back.

"I'm sorry to break it to you, son, but you'll never walk again."

His first reaction was completely arbitrary – an insane, burning anger at this doctor for calling him "son." He wasn't this doctor's son, and he'd long since stopped believing that his own father even saw him as anything more than a punching bag. He was nobody's son. He was on his own, and that was just plain fucking fine.

But eventually the words started sinking in. He would never walk again. He thought about it… never being able to go anywhere, without help. Being stuck in a fucking wheelchair while his father beat the shit out of him, with no ability to go out to the park for a smoke afterward. Having to be fucking_ pushed_ _by Dally_ if they were ever to hang out again. _Never being able to go anywhere on his own_.

He thought about it, and the thought made him sick. He'd had his pride, but he _didn't,_ now.

He was still thinking about it, while everyone he cared about was off fighting a rumble, that night – a rumble for his own honor, so it seemed. A rumble that, no matter the outcome, could never make him whole again. A rumble that - as he informed Dallas that night, after he showed up all full of glory - in the end "didn't mean nothin'." And Johnny believed it. His pride had checked out the back door, and it wasn't likely to come back.

Without it- he was sure – he was nothing. He had_ nothing_.

That didn't mean he didn't still love them, though – his gang- his brothers. A goodbye seemed appropriate. So he wrote a letter, and stuck it in the book. Because hell, if he'd had to say all that shit to Ponyboy himself, he just might've cried. And he didn't cry in front of anyone.

Still, he struggled to hold back tears as he tried to tell Dallas about how futile the whole fight was – and as he told Pony to stay gold, just like in that poem. It was hard – he loved them – and, somewhere deep down, he wasn't sure it was the right choice.

Finally, having said what he could, and fearing that he might cry, despite himself, he did the only thing he knew to stop it.

He just stopped breathing.


End file.
